


At the Fountain

by dearcaspian



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Multi, Other, Set in the future, Short One Shot, a lil bit steamy for one sentence, julian is free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 18:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15540714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcaspian/pseuds/dearcaspian
Summary: “You two are making quite the racket, you know.”Nadia stands on a balcony some ways above, just barely visible from where Yvenne leans against the fountain. Her strong reprimand does not match the sly glimmer of the way she looks down on them.“Sorry!” Yvenne calls, trying to peer past the trees. “We’ll keep it down.”“We won’t,” whispers Julian from her lap.





	At the Fountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleAprilFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/gifts).



> Written in the headcanon universe created by myself and LittleAprilFlowers, in which our apprentices both exist and are students of Asra. Yvenne belongs solely to her, and romances Julian. Caspir is my own, and romances Asra. Enjoy!

“No, Ilya, that’s not how you do it.”

Julian looks over at Yvenne’s carefully poised hands. She holds the sewing needle expertly between finger and thumb, the angle perfect for the next stitch. The thread trails a neat line down past her elbow, a preferable sight to the unavoidable knots every few notches down his own thread.

Her instruction continued to be nurturing despite his newly discovered lack of talent. Julian marvels at her patience as she adjusts his fingers.

“See?” she says. “Like that. Otherwise you’ll keep stabbing yourself.”

“Right, of course,” he grumbles. “What’s another stabbing? I’ve only pricked myself eighteen times now.”

“Five, and I’ve healed each one of them,” Yvenne corrects, affection outweighing her amusement at his misfortune. “Here, try this one.”

She reaches into the worn, beloved sewing kit beside her, unearthing a longer needle bent into a smooth curve. “It might make things a little easier.”

“You are a savior and a delight,” Julian proclaims, and immediately pricks himself again.

The two sit close beside the towering fountain in the palace gardens. Spray from the water streaming down the marbled tiers catches occasionally in the breeze, a welcome respite from the heat of midday. Julian’s long legs are stretched out in front of him. His boots had been kicked off somewhere nearby neither one of them could recall, but it seemed unimportant still. They were alone among the meticulously sculpted flora, almost undetectable by any prying eye. Moments such as this were common these days, but treasured nevertheless.

“I thought your interest in theater would have given you some experience with sewing?” Yvenne asks. The emerald fabric of her latest project shimmers with every movement. “Who made the costumes?”

Julian slowly shakes his head, intensely focused on threading the needle through his own cloth. He had been claiming a shirt was in the works for a while. Yvenne thought “shirt” was more of a loosely formed concept at this point. She hadn’t the heart to tell him.

“Not me. I never got into costume design that much. Mostly I helped to write everyone’s lines, or built backdrops.”

“Ilya!” Yvenne exclaims, beaming. “I didn’t know you were a writer?”

“I’m, uh, not,” he says, sitting up straighter. Pink flushes his cheeks. “It was only community theater, and I wasn’t the only person making the scripts.”

“I’m impressed, regardless.”

“Oh?” That bold grin is back. “Then, uh, would you care to hear about the origins of the infamous  _ Final Rites _ monologue?”

“I’ve heard it before in a few particular plays. What about it?”

“I wrote it.” 

“You  _ didn’t _ !” Yvenne’s gasp serves to darken Julian’s blush further. “Caspir was telling me the other day how compelling they thought it!”

A soft rustle of branches drifts over from the near distance. Julian and Yvenne glance up to spot Caspir and Asra, arm in arm, ducking beneath the overgrown leaves of a towering oak as they wander about the gardens. Asra is too caught up in whatever lively story he tells, his expression animated, but Caspir notices the two by the fountain. They wink in Yvenne’s direction, managing to just tug Asra away from an impending thorn bush before they both disappear around a corner.

“Cas told me they missed me the other day,” Julian sheepishly reveals after a hush of quiet lingers peacefully between them. “After I saw them in the shop, coming back from visiting Mazelinka outside the city?”

Yvenne’s smile is full of warmth. “Cas has been used to you for a long while now, you know.”

“So they say.” Julian says in mock suspicion.

“They hugged you the other day, Ilya,” she chastises.

“A memorable occasion for the ages.”

“Besides, we all missed you.” 

“Not as much as I you, my dear.”

Julian makes a show of clutching his chest and flopping over. He lands halfway across Yvenne’s lap, gangly limbs spread about, tossing what impressions of a garment he had made on his fabric dramatically away from him. 

“The insatiable loneliness felt in your absence was almost too much to bear,” he says, gazing up at Yvenne in overdone agony. “I slept very little for those two days. In fact, I’m still missing you now.”

“I”m right here,” Yvenne teases.

“Every time I’m without you, I miss you.” 

Julian closes his eyes and hums. A split second later he opens them again, seeming surprised by Yvenne’s presence. “See? That second where I couldn’t look upon your pretty face was torture. The moment without you has aged me and the world. What time has passed? We have children now, right?”

Yvenne’s laughter lights up the surrounding area. She throws her head back, weakly pushing at Julian in a mock attempt to roll him off.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says breathlessly. “They’re three and five.”

“Fantastic. The perfect age to carry on my old, old shoulders.”

“You two are making quite the racket, you know.”

Nadia stands on a balcony some ways above, just barely visible from where Yvenne leans against the fountain. Her strong reprimand does not match the sly glimmer of the way she looks down on them.

“Sorry!” Yvenne calls, trying to peer past the trees. “We’ll keep it down.”

“We won’t,” whispers Julian from her lap. 

“It is no real trouble,” the Countess says, waving a hand in dismissal. “I must say, however, I am…  _ pleased _ ... to see you two enjoying yourselves.”

She smirks and walks off, back into the palace. Julian and Yvenne stare blankly at each other.

“That was… odd.”

“A good odd, I think,” Yvenne muses gently. “She’s lightening up on you, Ilya. How does it feel to be a free man?”

It isn’t the first time Yvenne has asked. The question had cropped up at several points over the past few months, each occasion colored with a different form of feeling behind it. The concept was still an unfamiliar one, once too abstract and elusive for him to fully embrace his total independence now. Each answer was comprised, when Julian chose to give one at all, of radically varying confessions and affirmations

How does it feel to be a free man, Yvenne would say, as they trudged through the Marketplace, and Julian would grin:  _ better now that I can embarrass you, by covering you in kisses in front of the masses _ . How does it feel to be free, Yvenne would ask, and Julian would falter from where he watched her cook dinner over her shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around her waist: _I don't know, but your soup could rival any personal liberties_ _. _ How does it feel, Yvenne would whisper into the hollow of his throat, fingertips digging reddened crescent moons into his broad shoulders, clinging to him desperately as he moved above her:  _ almost as good as this. Almost as good _ .

He needed the reminder of his recent liberation far more than she did, and she would continue to show him the clear and unrestrained paths ahead until he could stride them confidently on his own.

Julian shifts, and manages to stumble upon the needle Yvenne stuck into her fabric for temporary safekeeping. She laughs at the sight of him putting his thumb in his mouth, hurt and offended by the needle he quickly exiles to the grass.

“Mffbettgh,” he says around the grievous wound.

“Was that the common tongue, or a new language?.”

“I said,” he tries again, “better now that there’s no price on my head to keep me from you.”

“Is it possible to be too lucky?”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“It’s getting a little hot out here,” he notes, glancing at the fountain. “And I could use a break from preparing for my illustrious new career in textiles. Would you care to join me in cooling off?”

“Nadia may still be around here somewhere,” Yvenne warns. “She may not take too kindly to us splashing around in it.”

“Our dear Countess has swam in it before.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Julian nods, “and she is aware that I’ve seen her doing it, too. Come on. What’s a little fun mean, if it isn’t based on blackmail?”

“This is why I adore you,” Yvenne tells him, and begins hurriedly slipping off her shoes.

  
  


Inside the palace, standing before a floor to ceiling window with a faint view of the fountain, Caspir nudges Asra and points.

“Someone is having fun,” they say, snickering as they watch Yvenne conjure up an arc of glimmering water. It hits Julian right in the face. “Should we tell them Nadia is on the move?”

“They’ll figure it out eventually,” Asra says. “The least we could do is give them a little extra time.”

They smile at one another. A synchronized Nevermind Me spell cloaks Julian and and Yvenne, camouflaging them effectively from any passerby’s attention.

“Hey, where did Julian’s shirt go?” Caspir asks. Asra pulls them slowly away from the window.

“Best not to wonder.”


End file.
